by Carrie
Diary of A Rich Girl – Chapter 39
It came down to this:
My life as a housewife lasted all of two weeks. Not that I had any intentions of being cooped up and practicing how to make buttered toast and crème brule, I just wondered what it would be like to sit at home all day and wait for hubby to come home. Well, as it turns out, I happen to be boss of my house and I don’t wait for ‘no’ one. And being boss has nothing to do with having muscles, testosterone, or a penchant for ESPN. I have the pussy. Not he. That is the Golden Chalice. That is what the Crusaders went to Jerusalem for: The quest of the womb; the fine delicate feminine flesh that gives life and venture impetus. Anything other than fucking, for men, is mental masturbation; a metaphorical substitution of the real thing. The gentle womb, the breast, the fine slender curve of a beautiful woman is the inspiration men imbibe when they’re not wanking off or actually getting the chance to ‘do’ it. Winning the race is fucking. Climbing Mt. Everest is fucking. Building the tallest building is fucking. Blowing up the Twin Towers is fucking, or at least the dark side of it.
When Lesley first saw my branding he was shocked to say the least. But I neither rushed to create some cover or temporarily deceive. I merely said, “If it bothers you than don’t go out with me.”
Confused, he tried to appear reasonable, “It’s just that it’s not common, that’s all. I’ve never seen it on a woman’s bottom before.”
“How many bottoms have you seen?”
He had just finished fucking me for the first time and suddenly seemed to have some apprehension, as if he were thinking: Gee, I don’t think mother would ever like her.
“Carrie, that’s besides the point.”
“No, it isn’t. In fact, you’re avoiding my point.”
“I’m not avoiding anything. I just don’t think many girls have that kind of tattoo. They may have tattoos, and God knows how many people have them today, but that one is kind of off, if you know what I mean.”
Slipping on my bra and panties, I said, “No, I don’t know what you mean.”
“But why would you have that on you?”
“Because you make the mistake of expecting I wouldn’t.”
“I don’t call that making a mistake.”
A moment of passionate love making had turned to sudden animosity. “Then I’ll tell you why it’s one. Instead of curiosity you immediately find fault with me. You condemn me. That’s your mistake.”
“I haven’t said anything of the sort and I don’t condemn you.”
“You don’t need to have said anything.”
“Carrie, I just don’t understand it; that’s all. I’m merely trying to make sense of it. I’m not condemning you. It’s just a bit weird.”
I had enough of his bullshit, “And you’re not weird?”
He walked away from me and got dressed, as if that were the end of it. I finished dressing and headed to the door. I was about to turn around and say something, but angrily shut it behind me instead.
I didn’t see Lesley for another week or so. Then at dinner one night, downtown, I ran into him. He was standing at the bar looking quite good. I was seated at my table and I pretended to ignore him. I only kept stealing glances at him to see if he were looking at me. Don’t get any ideas that it was anything else. Then my girlfriend and I got a lovely 1982 Grange Hermitage with a note that said, “From a repentant jackass to an angel from heaven. Forgive me and end my suffering.” I wrote him back, “You look hungry. Join us.” I’ve saved that note. It works wonders when needed.
